It's crazy what you find on google at 2am- I found a link to one of my poems in Eclectica referenced on a site about bottlecutters-

My google horizon has expanded, thanks to blogs, blogging, and bloggers. It's been years since I've found a poem of mine on the net used by someone who doesn't give me credit for it. The worst was around 9-11, when three web pages posted my poem without permission.

Once, I had a zine acceptance that I never knew about until I googled.

I even found the reference to one of my first publications, in 1996, in a wonderful magazine called Echoes-

It was a terrible poem, but heartfelt. I remember the editor took it after submissions were closed, Jerry H. Jenkins- a frequent contributor, encouraged me to send it after I had posted it on the Compuserve Forum.

nothing like nostalgia, is there?

posted here

by Diane K. Martin- down in the thread- it's pretty damn good IMO

If I could teach my students only four things during the semester, I would teach them to read as if their lives depended on it, that they cannot know everything, but can learn how to find what they need to know, that writing is a way of thinking, and that the right word matters.

To read as if one’s life depends on it would be my first real lesson because I think it is key to everything. Unlike some teachers, I don't think that reading need be instructional, politically correct, or of high quality to have the desired effect — to open up the world for the student to its full 360°. I think the beginning student should read everything he or she can get their hands on, that, like panning for gold, the good stuff will sort itself out, and that as the student continues to read, she or he will be drawn to exactly what she or he needs. (However, I have very strong opinions about what I think is good literature, and I can tailor a reading list to the individual, to help a student find books that will stimulate and make him or her want more.)

The quantity of information that exists in this Information Age is daunting. Sophocles didn’t have this problem, nor did Shakespeare. Beginning students in the 21st century need to learn how to use the Internet and libraries (both!) to discern for themselves what is information and what is opinion, what is fact and what is fiction, what they need and what they don’t.

Writing is thinking. It requires sorting and ordering information. It isn’t easy. To get from the beginning of a sentence to its end requires using gray matter that for most American students is flabby and slack. But writing does not have to be intimidating, with word processors as allies. Getting something (anything) down on the page is the best way to start. And then you edit.

My fourth lesson, that the right word matters, is a lesson in precision. Whether writing an essay or a technical paper, I want my students to learn to focus their writing like a lens on what they are trying to persuade or explain or illustrate. If they are writing a poem, it should be equally important to get the precise word in the precise place. Don’t say nails when you mean screws, pants when you mean jeans. I think that it is important to care to get it right, that it matters that it matters.

The above are my four lessons. But I would also teach my students that life doesn’t have an undo button, that one person can make a difference, that they must love themselves before another can love them, and that a paragraph does not have to have five sentences. These last four lessons would only be to equalize the effect of high school and Hollywood and give us a good place to start.

I am erasing myself from my job- I redid all the form letters on the computer and took my name off all of them.

I burned a CD of my personal files and 'poof' I am gone.

My work email has no mail; saved, sent, or trashed.

Anything personal there will be removed and taken home by Wednesday afternoon. Thursday is supposed to be my last day (just shy of four years). If I get done tomorrow with all I plan to do, I will not go in on Thursday.

It's a strange sensation, to disappear.

In the meantime, there are too many poets on the planet right now- or maybe there aren't enough. I can barely keep up with the books I have and yet keep getting more- I devour them like a gluttonous dog, in big wet bites, all at once, too much for my mouth to hold so the words dribble down my chin, sloppy and wet.

There's a pretty picture.

We're almost at Mid-march and the temperature here yesterday was 81. A record.

It will be in the 70's again today. That means tonight at the gallery when Rattlemouth plays, they will consume massive amounts of beer and soft drinks.

So, again, I have to make a trip to Costco- oh well, I need gas, and that, like the temperature is high again.

When will I have time for poetry??

answer: three more days work at the college-

THEN I get my life back. sort of- I've already contracted for time the last two weeks in March at the high school- but at least it's not downtown.

The construction in downtown Richmond has made it a dreadful place to be right now- but oh my- in about two years it should be a great place for conventions and stuff like that.

No Olympics, though- we're way too laid back for that-

Possible titles for my new chapbook

Uttering and Publishing see definition

Because I Have a Song Chinese proverb

More Than This Day Goethe

Another Chapbook Already?

Drinking with Harlan Ellison

The Bubble Where There Is No Time from a poem by Barbara Jane Reyes


I highly favor the first or the last-

If I use Ms Reyes quote, do I have to ask her permission to print a small excerpt that contains the line? It is a small self-published book, no ISBN

My 96-year-old aunt is right- the end of the world is nigh....

Jessica Simpson also tells W magazine that she is set to publish a volume of poetry, which she has been writing since she was 11.

She adds: "It's a piece of my heart I want to share with my fans."

I have nothing to say.

Actually I do, but none of it is coherent (no doubt similar to her poetry)

so much time has gone by!

I have eight days left at the college- I can't wait- but I need to get some things in order and get 3 more paychecks (one next Monday, then the next two after I'm gone)

I want to start doing things right now, but it's tough-

In a very short time I'll have days to myself to clean, work, write (not necessarily in that order) and try to figure out ny next move. It's all good, all good-

The most difficulty I find is focusing on right now and the tasks I must complete- buying ABC licenses for the gallery, getting the slam going, not missing meetings, i feel like the Robin Williams character in that Woody Allen movie- I'm unfocused-

There are no smooth transitions, are there? Just one bumpy road to the next-

My husband was worried about what we'll do when chicken gets expensive- the absolute farthest thing from my mind. I mean, we'll eat what there is to eat, right? Do you think that was his passive agressive way of saying "I wish you wouldn't quit your job in these tough times?"

I want to slough off some of my anger. Anger at being tired, being sucked dry by other people's problems, anger at not being able to write, at having chaos in the house, at being the only one who does ANYTHING around here.

Please, no advice- what is, I'm mad as hell and I'm quitting my job so at least I won't be mad about THAT.

Go out to Bootsie's Chocolate Obsession, buy some great dark chocolate and relax.

It'll all be better soon.

I'm having poet-envy-

How do all these poets find the time and money to travel all over the place to do poetry readings?? Seriously, I'm puzzled. I get groceries and gas. I don't go on cruises and trips- I spent a week in June visiting a friend and was eating yogurt for two months (and that was too long- I didn't know, I thought a week was what a vacation was- my faux paux, cultural ignorance- it almost wrecked our friendship, I think, but there are other factors in play, like jobs and shit and my emotional state- I don't think he reads my blog so I can talk about it)

Maybe I don't have enough credit card debt, or maybe everyone else in the world makes more money than I do (that wouldn't be hard). I want to read that book I keep hearing about onNPR about teaching black families to acquire wealth- little girls (aka old women) from East Texas red-clay farmers could use a few lessons, too.

If there is a pool of poet money/plane tickets, stuff like that in a secret location would someone shoot out an email and clue me in?

My poverty is driving me crazy- so I'm quitting my day job. That's America for you.

In the meantime, Tony (the work study student I've mentioned before, is still fighting financial aid- no water, no electricity at her house and she's still trying to get her degree.

It should feel ashamed for complaining, but I help her when I can- and I plowed my own road once upon a time.

But where does the money come from???

afterburn

Wrung out, squint-eyed
she is completely given over
to the needs of others, she is
succor, drained one dollar bill
after another, shallow breath
slipping into plain brown,
she wants it quiet, no music.

If anger simmers, she is
frustrated fury, delusional,
convinced they talk about her
every move- when she's good...
but on an off night, she ends up
alone in her car at the bookstore
parking lot, eating onion rings.

The voices in her head whine, click
and tally the hours spent stamping fires,
the conspiracy to downplay damage,
she has shake the mulberry trees
to reckon memory, reach deep,
smell saltwater and the dinkum oil,
tell the story true as it can be told.


rewrite 2-26-2006

sorry to be so out of date-

the blog, too.

show tonight- it's fabulous!!!

A...My Name is Alice

...a musical being presented by the Henrico High School Drama Club starring 5 senior girls from the Center for the Arts Vocal Music Theater Department!

Feb 22 and 23rd at ComedySportz Improv Theater- 8pm $10- call 266-9377 for reservations (and please do, it will probably sell out both nights)

and Feb 25th at the High School starting at 6:00 pm with dinner beforehand- $20 in advance and $25 at the door- It's a fundraiser for the Center for the Arts-

I'm musical director and my daughter is one of the stars!!! Please come!

No, I'm not- it's just a poem...

edited version (old one below) 2-26

afterburn

Wrung out, squint-eyed
she is completely given over
to the needs of others, she is
succor, drained one dollar bill
after another, shallow breath
slipping into plain brown,
she wants it quiet, no music.

If anger simmers, she is
frustrated fury, delusional,
convinced they talk about her
every move- when she's good...
but on an off night, she ends up
alone in her car at the bookstore
parking lot, eating onion rings.

The voices in her head whine, click
and tally the hours spent stamping fires,
the conspiracy to downplay damage,
she has shake the mulberry trees
to reckon memory, reach deep,
smell saltwater and the dinkum oil,
tell the story true as it can be told.

---------------------------------------
Check your messages

Sometimes when I think about
dying, I'm pretty sure I'd like to
leave a message on your machine
instead of calling 911 because
I'd rather say a few pertinent things
for you to pass on than involve
a total stranger who's doing a job.

Or my kids, who would be frightened
then burdened with guilt wondering
why they couldn't have helped in time,
my husband who wouldn't want to hear
first-hand, unless he's had a beer or two,
or a lesser friend who'd think I was crazy,
hang up on me and feel bad later.

I like the gruff way your voice sounds,
the crisp 'leave a message' command,
the fact I know you'd listen twice, at least,
trying to decide if I was serious before you
called back, checking gingerly with whoever
answers the phone, making general small talk,
hoping you didn't have to ask outright.

Of course, I'd risk the chance you answer
yourself, making me decide on the spot
what I was compelled to reveal, my requests
or my condition? Am I really close to the end?
Or could I put the whole thing off until I'm sure
you're out, unavailable for a boost instead
of an implied blessing, permission to be off.

thought for today....

(courtesy of Lyle Lovett)

She said something about going home
She said something about needing to spend some time alone
And she wondered out loud what it was she had to find
But she's already made up her mind

Now there is nothing so deep as the ocean
And there is nothing so high as the sky
And there is nothing so unwavering as a woman
When she's already made up her mind

from Joshua Judges Ruth

and no, I'm not leaving my husband.

Happy Valentine's Day

Small minds

always think simple solutions
will cover major event plans:
which vendor really delivers,
about how many custom widgets
the local wood shop can whittle,
the perfect Hallmark card.

Beady little eyes can't see
around corners, an exotic view
is needed, a desire for more
than a plain cheese omelet,
egg drop soup, the next bold idea,
a better place for pantyhose.

I thought you were bona fide:
good genes, sharp sunglasses,
non-linear road maps, a fondness
for show tunes and chocolate,
a sense of flamingos, bow ties,
the gift of genuine perfidy.

Out of good plots, I devoured yours,
eager to be swept onto the Oriental,
dancing backwards anyway, I was
an easy sheep, ready for the spit
shiny lifestyle of the brainless,
eye candy devotees, the watchers.

Goes to show, in the end nobody
smiles anymore than they have to,
we all pick our noses in the car
and you turned inside out, after all
the changes I made for fickle fashion,
the new red is just as black as ever.

Watch out, Richmond! Your southern entrenched plantation owner/slave rebellion bullshit mentality will not blot out or put down the excitement of new (and not so new ventures)

People get so attached in this town, they do something once, sometimes even half-assed, but then, oh then- it becomes their property in perpetuity and God help the poor schlub who dares to make a step a little farther on the path-

There are two bugaboos right now- a place and a person- oddly enough, not connected (though actually they probably are somewhere back in time).

All will be decided soon, on both counts. And I will still be doing all that I do- writing, reading, and promoting poetry. I suppose that's my mission statement- that and to encourage participants in all manner of involvement in the written arts, but hey!

Anyway- I will hold on and see what transpires- there are good folks out there working hard that I can give encouragment to (and you know who you are).

maybe it's the position of the planets- a lot of shit seems to be coming down all over right now-

I need some time- I always need time. There is dust all over the paneled wall in the bedroom.

When I was home more, I would keep it clean, my allergies loved me.

Now I go to work, go to rehearsal, come home, cook, doze, wake up, do this and go back to sleep to begin it all again.

My Christmas tree is still up.

My poems are unsubmitted and worse, unwritten.

I'm in rehearsal at Henrico High School Center for the Arts
for "A- My Name is Alice" a musical by and about women-
Wed Feb 22 and Thurs 23rd at ComedySportz Theater
on Staples Mill and Glenside
8:00pm $10
and February 24th at the high school-

I'm musical director and my daughter is one of five girls in the cast-
call 266-9377 for reservations at ComedySportz

after that, maybe I'll clean the wall.

Good news! Looks like we have a venue for the RichmondSlam- more info later!!!

and re:that- check here for Chicago news

Kate Campbell- she has a voice like sorghum syrup- and if you don't know what that is, I'm sorry for you. Or if you've never heard her. I did once, last year, I think- I sat ten feet away, in a hall the Starbucks Series uses for concerts (Presbyterian Church- nothing offensive or radical). She is a pure good person, just is- like somebody you never heard of, till you meet them and know they'd help you fix your tire, clean up after a sick baby- you know- country folk, decent.

What I always believed "America" should be- hard-working, any color, any age, any religion that believes in something better, all that. I am so simple. I guess. It's everything else that's complicated.

I'm trying to get back into writing- a little at a time- the show rehearsals are eating me up, so I try to let it all slide over me, into me, so I can write later.

Deep down, I always wonder how much 'later' I've got- who doesn't? The days go by, go by, go by- I can't remember what I did Tuesday, Monday, a month ago-

I like to make deals with that god I'm not sure about anymore- ten more years- that's all, I say- ten more. Ever so often I send that message out- ten more years, from now, from next week, next year.

It's raining like a..... whatever- here this morning and the drive from home to the parking garage was a nightmare, but I'm firmly planted on the roof between a white Cadillac and an old Buick.

I updated FlashPaperPoetry last night- I'm sure there are things I missed, let me know, please?

It always amazes me how much goes on right here in Richmond and how little crossover happens- and such low attendance! (I'm no saint, I missed the SLAM last night and I really wanted to go- but I had been out all day Saturday and Sunday- I went to swim and went to sleep)...

only to be awakened at 3 am something by terrible thunderstorms, the kind that rumble on, even far away. There's something energizing about a great storm.

Saturday night is...

I had a great little reading in Poquoson today- nice place, nice people, sold a couple of books, a CD- 77 miles down the interstate, 76 back- I passed the place getting there, had to come back-

I am in the middle of finding out what FLARF means- I feel like I was passed by (again) like blogs-

the coasts and big cities get information so late, by the time we hicks catch on the big guys are terribly bored and not too keen on giving us a little piece of fun-

well, I say, Flarf you! I shall share this useless information with locals and we will play until the next 'so last week' comes along.

Ya know, it's almost February- I'd love to go to the reading in DC Monday night but I don't see how- I can't drive alone, we have rehearsal, it's the Slam here in Richmond, and so on, and so on, and so on.......

all that whining- I should be slapped

Tony, who was the work study student in the office where I work, did not get work study funds this semester- she had a back problem last fall and had to withdraw for medical reasons. She was able to get financial aid for this semester and a Stafford loan, but no work study.

She helps me with the bar at the art gallery- I make sure she gets plenty of money. Her one vice is cigarettes. She's in her forties and picking up the pieces of her life, trying to get a degree in social work-

Her power was cut off after Christmas, her water. She has gas and can heat the first floor of a house in the worst part of Richmond with her oven- the landlord lets her live there because otherwise the place would be abandoned and would probably become a crack house.

It's winter, fortunately mild right now. But how the fuck does she do it?

In the dark, in the cold, every day? All those agencies that give help love families, men, but single women? Not much.

I give her money, what I can- buy her ham, food at Costco, I want to do more, she's a good person and this is America, isn't it?

I have been reading, though not as much as I'd like to, and have done no writing whatsoever.

It's 1:00 am and my knee hurts- I don't know why- and I only want to go to bed. The rehearsal schedule needs to be planned, the reading for kids on Wednesday, the sysiphistic pile of laundry haunts me (it never goes away nor shrinks) and I have poems in my head that skitter behind my eyes when I do finally lay down my head, and I listen intently for any sound on the porch that might indicate the neighborhood freak is getting it on (on my storm door).

Mostly I want to stay home and not go to work. Part of me has stuff to do- but there is this fear I am returning to the almost house-bound state I was in about 15 years ago- At that time, I had only a few places I could go- the school, the church (and I worked at both those places), one particular grocery store, and that was about it. If I was accompanied by someone else, I might, might, be able to go someplace new.

I had some anxiety attacks that I kept secret- though I thought I was dying- an hardly anyone knew what I was going through.

Writing helped get me out of that- and counseling, and a few really good friends, one of whom had his own meltdown before I met him- he was a rock. And an angel- in the movie sense.

I really do want to quit my job, though- it doesn't pay enough for the time and energy it takes- I'm kind of waiting for the next thing to present itself- I want to go to the summer workshop at WVU in fiction instead of poetry this summer, so I need to work on some ideas.

reading lots of poetry-

Burnside Review

Laurel Synder’s Daphne and Jim, A choose-your-own adventure biography in verse

and couple of journals I picked up at B&N

I have an school reading Wednesday at Watkins Elem School in New Kent on Wednesday.
They got a grant so I'm getting paid!

And a reading at Iris' Art Studio, 402 Wythe Creek Road, Poquoson, Virginia 757-868-4205 January 28, 2006 3 to 5 p.m. (Here's a link to Poquoson)

ah, the life of a locally semi-famous poet!

Well, here's an update for you- I was sitting at the computer and heard something on the front porch. We frequently have small animals, cats, birds out there, particularly on blowy, rainy nights like tonight.

I got up and turned on the light, pulled back the blinds to see some guy masturbating against the storm door- I freaked, yelled for my husband (already in bed- it was about 12:30 am) and the guy took off running down the street.

He went out to look around while I called the cops- they came pretty quickly, even though I called it in as a non-emergency.

I am so angry. Angry at myself for not getting a better description (he did have a hood pulled down over his face) and for this creep for making me feel unsafe in my house. I went to the sexual predator site and there are SIX known men within a three block radius, two looked like reasonable possibilities, though I thought the guy was younger- he moved pretty fast when he took off.

I come home late with some frequency. My daughter is 17 - since the murders on Southside across the river I'd have to say most Richmonders have taken precautions, checked their vulnerability.

But this is the first time I've worried about it since I lived in the city. The first time I've felt afraid.

no poetry tonight

no sleep, either.

Anyone out there in bloggworld know the singer Christine Lavin?

We're trying to reach her to get permission to include her song "Sensitive New Age Guys" in a review show called "A-My Name is Alice." It's at the Henrico High School Center for the Arts and the shows are Feb 22, 23, and 24th. I'm musical director and my daughter is one of the five girls in the show (though she wouldn't be singing it). The show has apparently been done with that song included though it was not in the original score, but if we get permission, we can use it.

I love her song "Kind of Love You Never Recover From" - gets me everytime.

I know it's a crazy thing to ask but I've known weirder connections to be made (the inquiries we've made have not generated any response).

Finally got to the Poetry Jam at Cafe Gutenberg, revitalized and renewed through the leadership of T.S. Prunier.

It was most excellent, a covey of poets and a dash of audience, good wine and excellent food (says me) and a real need to get to my webpage and update the calendar.

Alas, I came home and started reading "The Bedside Companion to the No Tell Motel" which arrived in the mail today and read until I was too tired to make sense of it. It is delightful! Funny poems, sweet poems, heart-breakers, and horny-mama verse.

get one- you won't be sorry!

You know what I enjoyed about tonight's poetry? So much variety, acceptance, joy in words. I always feel obscure and deep (as in shit) in the face of 'slammish' but not tonight. My stuff is counched and careful compared to bare-souling, pretty on the page but not first-read (or first-hear) experience. I envy the spoken souls for their heart sleeves.

But nobody cared, everybody listened. Why can't most MFA's be more like that and less in their fucking heads???

oooo- bias showing, ask me after Thursday when I go to the Virginia Museum for Art After Hours and less transparent pages.

My poem that won the Poesia contest and the $500? It wasn't Cistern-
it was Clear Lake- I misunderstood over the phone. Not to mention I
rechecked my submission list and I must have recorded it wrong.

Here's the winner: (I got the check today, and the official press
release- copies of the quarterly to come)

Clear Lake

Even when the surface reflects
perfection in hyaline brilliance
I navigate the gumbo soil beneath,
culling mistakes from misgivings,
scraping my belly on obligations,
payments in arrears, little lies
constrained by night vision.

Even if the stars were aligned
at my back to make me holy,
erase every intricate implication,
dereliction, bad substitution,
expedient intervention,
shame would hold my face
to the mirror for atonement.

Even if the God of my childhood
made this limpid prayer ardent,
granting me what I will not bear
willingly now, overcome by fear
I have been abandoned again,
the sting of reproach would stay
its weary stripes across my back.

__________________________________________________________
For Richmond locals-
Art After Hours starts next Thursday at the
Virginia Museum-poets this year are: Susan Hankla (1-12), Leigh
Hadaway (1-19), Elizabeth Seydel Morgan (1-26), Remica Bingham (2-2),
Derek Kannemeyer (2-9), d.l. hopkins (2-16), and Brian Henry (who
doesn't return email BTW, the new Creative writing prof at UR and
gosh, I'll miss his reading because I'll be directing music for "A is for
Alice" more info to come 2-23) Check FlashPaperPoetry for more info
soon! or go here

It looks like they are getting a few more folks from around here to read- maybe next year they'll pick ME.

small aside- the Second Place winner for the contest Kirby Estes "Nothing of What You Say", Honorable mention Len Krisak. with "Bird From Afar"- some pretty classy company!

Happy Birthday to me!!!!!

Ah, a new year! I am revising today, and cleaning the house a bit, and making chicken salad.

Maybe sorting laundry. The trouble with housework is, no matter how often you do it, it's never done.

Same things with poetry. I was going through chapbooks last night (the little ones I sell at readings) and fixing errors, then revisiting whole poems and juggling passages.

A few poems (very few) I let stand. Not so much I think them perfect, but I can't see anything at this moment that would improve the whole.

My mother used to cut my bangs when I was a kid. She'd trim, look, trim a little more, comb, trim a little more, and eventually I'd have a quarter-inch line of hair across my forehead. It was not a good look for me. What she didn't think about is with my eye being so much smaller on the left side of my face, there was no way a straight-line bang situation was going to look right. She needed to look at ME, not try to make my face look like someone else's. It took me years to learn that, and a very talented stylist.

My poems are the same. I have to fix them according to what they are trying to say, not what might suit someone else.

Of course, I'm revising because I have nothing new to say right now. Even in this new year.

I'm heading out to the gallery for the New Year's Eve bash (I'm working the bar- we should make a nice piece of change to help with operating expenses tonight).

For all my friends out there:

Have a Great New Year!!!

Keep writing, keep the peace, hug those you care about, and much love and happiness!!

Here's the big announcement-

Last night I received a phone call from editor WR Mayo from POESIA- A Literary Quarterly of Poetry and Poetry Reviews informing me I have been awarded First Prize in the Third Annual Oliver W. Browning Poetry Competition. My poem will appear in
the January issue and online and I will receive $500.00.

After years of writing, revising, rewriting, rethinking, submitting, waiting, WAITING, it is wonderful to be validated, even better to get a cash award.

Submit!

I'm making my husband a Green bean Casserole for dinner- the kind with French Fried Onion Rings!

Okay, so I added ham bits and grated romano cheese- he still thinks it's great! I feel a little mmm- Brini Maxwell, or maybe like my mother (or mother-in-law- who actually served us a casserole with Tater Tots on top last time we were there.

I'm going out with the Poetry Society Contest Committee for lasagna-just the five of us and wine- yeah!

(Title In process- it was stored as Two Questions)

No wind, no mist,
no covering to shut out day,
dark ‘nobody knows
nor shall know’ I am
a camera, shun the critical eye

have tried tobebigger:
piss, pot, pie, purchased
not nearly enough times
it might be thought redundant
to say not nearly too few.

Grow, grow up, state your mind, you
commit yourself, commensurate
in all ways much as can be,
little one- Oh! Forgive the slip,
everyone knows you can't be serious.


(the quote is from Don't Kill Yourself by Carlos Drummond de Andrade
translated from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Bishop

Am I ready for the new year? Yes- I am amazed it's 2006. As a kid, I tried to imagine the 2000's and I never could, like the hand in Mau'Dib's vision that kept him from seeing his own fate.

And now I am ready for 'Christmas', whatever that means. I made sweet/hot walnuts for folks (like my choir members) but I never gathered enough tins, so I'm using little bags.

The presents are wrapped, except for my hubby's- I got him Season One of Deadwood. He's gone for a motorcycle ride- it's 55 and sunny here after a month of really COLD.

I guess I'll go get dressed, I have to leave for church in 20 minutes, pageant and service at 4pm, lessons and carols, service at 10. I'll get home about one or so.

I don't know- what's it all about, Alfie? I have my usual holiday doldrums, no friends, no fun, no belief- the food is pretty good, though.

Have a blessed whatever you celebrate- maybe some of the good times will rub off on me and the misanthropes out there.

I saw Santa Tuesday night- he was getting out of a Neon on Dumbarton Rd. His coat was undone and he looked disheveled. Since he supposedly lives at the North Pole, I think he may have been visiting his lover (white trash Wanda, no doubt).

I never thought he'd drive an American car- a Volvo, maybe- nevernever a Hummer- too gauche!

Who knew?

The boys were fabulous at their cabaret! And we had a full house, and I did just fine with the accompaniment- except I had to dress up and put on make-up because the keyboard was onstage! It was okay- my daughter drew me eyebrows and plucked my chin hair. (and I got a cut of the house, which was nice).

I am the only person on the third floor of my building. I left the stall door open when I went to the bathroom. How brave!

Please, no one else ask me if I'm ready for Christmas. You don't really care, I don't really care, and hell no, I'm not. I haven't mailed anything, no tree, the house is a mess. So that's the whole of it.

Seasonal disorder- that's what I'm in the middle of right now- I'm not sure it's a real medical condition for me- but externally everything is crazy and internally disorder is my status quo.

I just spent two hours on the phone with my aunts- one 79, the other 96- because I hadn't called them in way too long, not to mention 't'is the season'. I've put in a roast (Alton Brown Pot Roast recipe), lost, then found two blown glass seagulls I'd bought that need to be mailed, didn't go into work (and apparently it's been crazy), and have rehearsal at 6:00 with two young men who are doing a showcase 'cabaret' at the ComedyImprov Theater on Wednesday and I'm playing piano. '

I must learn to say- fine, I'll play- I need $25 an hour. Of course, only one of them could afford that- and he'd have to get it from his parents, so it doesn't really matter (I do it because I want to) but I need to learn to do that.

I terribly undervalue myself.

I did buy a basket for my friend Dave at Bootsie's Chocolate Obsession (Parc Place at Short Pump across from Dillard's)- I seem to be awful at gifting people- I hope he likes it- Go to Bootsie's - her daughter is my daughter's friends- she gives SAMPLES!

Now I'm going to Stir Crazy to get lunch with my daughter-

poetry?? what poetry????

Well, here's my dream house (sort of)- and here's what it says about me-

Based on the drawing and the 10 answers they gave this is a summary of their personality:

Your house tells the world that you ought to be a leader. You are a freedom lover and a strong person. You are shy and reserved. If you've drawn a cross on each of windows, you always want to live alone. You are very tidy person. There's nothing wrong with that because you're pretty popular among friends. Your life is always full of changes.

You will avoid being alone and seek the company of others whenever possible. You love excitement and create it wherever you go. You have a strong personality and you like to command, influence and control people.

You are not a romantic person by nature. It also safe to say that others don't see you as a flirt. You are self-confident and happy with your life.

It was fun- sort of-

okay- it's psycho-bitch day.

It started with the weather- ice and sleet early this morning. The college is closed, my husband stayed home from work, and though her school is open- the daughter refused to get up (and daddy dear encouraged her by not caring) and is still asleep at noon- BUT she has to go in at 2:00 for Vocal Music Theater and then there is a fashion show tonight (which I probably should attend)

Now, you might say- oh, how cute! Family time!

No, my back hurts (bad sleep), I have to get her up and drive her (he won't), and guess who says "What's for lunch?" when I finally make my way to the other side of pain?

I dunno. Maybe I should kill them and go to jail. I could write poetry, get published, have celebrity backing, go on Oprah when I get out. I wouldn't have trouble being somebody's bitch- I am now!

more later (I hope) and just so you know- I really do love my family!

****************
No killing today! (I need to wash my hair- I don't want a hideous jailhouse picture)

amd BTW, TS-
hunky-dory
1866, Amer.Eng. (popularized c.1870 by a Christy Minstrel song), perhaps a reduplication of hunkey "all right, satisfactory" (1861), from hunk "in a safe position" (1847) New York City slang, from Du. honk "goal, home," from M.Du. honc "place of refuge, hiding place." A theory from 1876, however, traces it to Honcho dori, said to be a street in Yokohama, Japan, where sailors went for diversions of the sort sailors enjoy.

hmmmm.

hey- go here and listen... (scroll down)

A mail box bonanza!! Paul Guest's book, 32 Poems, and the new issue of Rattle!

Life is GOOD!!!

well, of course, except for missing Richard Pryor and Robert Sheckley.

Life is short, people, quit fucking around with things that steal your soul.

Here's some "best-of" lists I can get into- from the Montserrat Review

I am having the most ridiculous hassle with the fax machine at work, and by default, the ABC board from whom I'm trying to get a license for a lecture at the gallery tonight (where there will probably be only a handful of people drinking one glass of wine, if that). It is my impressions they change personnel like my daughter changes her hair color- so I always seem to be talking to a different agent and explaining the whole 'artist-run gallery' concept and why we need licenses (uh, cause it's the law?).

Makes me crazy- the good news is, they are always really nice and easy to work with (it helps that we all have state jobs therefore a mutual enemy) and because of weather and late openings- I am the only one here in my office and can listen to Mobylives while I pretend to work!

here- sing-a-long (at the end of the Mobylives feed)

Words are flying out like
endless rain into a paper cup
They slither while they pass
They slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow waves of joy
are drifting thorough my open mind
Possessing and caressing me

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world

Images of broken light which
dance before me like a million eyes
That call me on and on across the universe
Thoughts meander like a
restless wind inside a letter box
they tumble blindly as
they make their way across the universe

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world

Sounds of laughter shades of life
are ringing through my open ears
exciting and inviting me
Limitless undying love which
shines around me like a million suns
It calls me on and on across the universe

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Jai guru deva
Jai guru deva

The big showcase for the Center for the Arts high School is tonight-did I mention 2 of my daughters pieces have been chosen for the national competition? Her holocaust work and her wearable art (skirt out of receipts, top out of shopping bags, matching purse) Yeah daughter!!!

Another radically rewritten poem: the original March 26, 2000

here's the new:

At the Museum, Molly

reads poems long and thin
as her loblolly legs
rise from the hardwood floor.

With a mouth full of feathers,
she hums Dulce Domum,
the air tastes like fresh pears.

I would embrace her there
while the sun slides into the wall,
touch behind her ear, treasure her

until a draught takes the words
off the pages onto our skin.
Then we can feast on syllables

in front of a new acquisition;
the statue of a faceless woman,
Jaipur marble perfectly carved.

Here's the original:

The lady

reads poems as long and thin
as her loblolly legs
rising up from the hardwood floor

torso catalog casual perched
over peg-leg jeans and black pumps.

Her mouth is full of feathers
teasing phrases outside in to torture
tropes into bound-wrist cliches'

her mask transparent as a tutu

she is naked at Bendel's
a major credit card
bulges her back pocket.


__________________________________________________________________________________
The 'what were you doing?' thing....

WHAT WERE YOU DOING TEN YEARS AGO? 1995
I was doing some things I should’nta been but am glad I did. I was happily teaching at a private school with my best friend and life seemed charmed. I was choir director at a big new church and lots of poetry going on and a great jazz combo, the Brautigan Quintet. I had really just started writing seriously again after a long hiatus. I was having a great time-
FIVE YEARS AGO? 2000
I was contemplating how much certain aspects of my main teaching (job) sucked and how much I wanted out. I was in a smaller church but with much nicer people. I was publishing a lot and getting more and more into poetry performance. I had a trio called Villanelle. I was drifting emotionally. I was fifty years old.
ONE YEAR AGO? 2004
I was getting more involved at the art gallery, taking over the responsibility for the bar on First Friday exhibits. I was planning my one woman show for March 2005. I had a lot going and was trying to get poems together for a collection. I was busy.
YESTERDAY? Monday
I was sleeping most of the day away after a lovely snowstorm that paralyzed the city and gave me a great rest. I did laundry, made fabulous minestrone with leftover turkey, watched the news as everything gradually shut down. It was wonderful.

Here's something that's a big pain-

I'm trying to be nice to my kid in college. He lives on campus, it's exam time, he called hungry, I said "Let me order you a couple of pizzas for you and your girlfriend."

Cool, right? No, he has to show the credit card to the delivery guy. So, instead of going home and fixing MY supper I have to go sit in front of his apartment and wait with him for the delivery guy. And in case you didn't catch the news, we just had snow and ice today and it's freezing and there will be big chunks of ice n'shit along the curb.

Try to do something nice, hah!

You know what I'd really like for a gift? Some time with a really excellent piano, just to play for awhile, alone, no pressure-

I am so weary of keyboards and crappy instruments- I mean, I don't mind (particularly when I'm being paid) but there is nothing like the joy I experience playing a wonderful, in tune, instrument.

Sometimes listening to NPR, I get all weepy thinking about it. I really miss playing for pleasure. Playing what I want. Riffing on a tune, all that.

Gimme a big old Steinway grand, all wood, made fifty years ago and well-maintained. Yeah!

Here's my poetry book wish list- now keep in mind, these are books you could probably get on a bookstore shelf in a big city and a few are really expensive so I'd never buy them for myself (Gone are the good old days when B&N and Border's 'paid' me for hosting the open mike poetry groups in merchandise- I filled out my library, then the high school library where I worked when corporate generosity was in season- OTOH Border's used to give each of us in the jazz combo $100 gift certificates for playing there- sigh!)

On to the list:

Poetry Books I’d like to get as gifts:

Directed by Desire: The Collected Poems of June Jordan
Sara Miles, editor

A Hunger
Lucie Brock-Broido

Midwest Eclogue
David Baker

Directions to the Beach of the Dead
Richard Blanco

Present Company
W.S. Merwin

Poems of Catullus
Gaius Valerius Catullus, Peter Green

Poetry Antholgies I’d like to get as gifts then give away to a high school library

Sweeping Beauty: Contemporary Women Poets Do Housework
Pamela Green, editor

Surrealist Love Poems
Mary Ann Caws, editor

Talkin' to Myself: Blues Lyrics, 1921-1942
Michael Taft

Lofty Dogmas: Poets on Poetics
Deborah Brown, editor

100 Great Poems of the Twentieth Century
selected by Mark Strand

as I say- it's a little tame- OTOH, I just received the new Wicked Alice 2005 annual & Kristy Bowen's chapbook Errata in the mail (i'm also waiting for Paul Guest's book!) so I have something to read right now- if anyone wants to gift me any of the above, I'll happily send you my snail mail address.

Now here's something fun-

A new column in Blackbird by Ron Smith- it's called Red Guitar

Enjoy- I did.

Wahh! I unwisely decided to change colors and lost all my links- I don't have time to restore right now- later this afternoon- sorry-

I been going through some old work to rethink what I meant to say (or perhaps I can't remember what I meant but can only rewash the poem and try a new thought)

anyway- because the old one was really self-indulgent and terrible, I will put the new one first- then the old one.

Equilibrists redux (with regards to John Crowe Ransom)

Safely distant, held aloft
by unbreakable laws, bent,
bound as sure as stone remains
he is not hers, nor her, his.

Yet they endure apart, still
water wears them down, and he,
struck blind in moon-made shadow
tips his heart, then eats his hat.

Dance, lovers, move into day,
take what can never be held
in a hand with no life line
aside: it may be too late.

She invokes invisible,
cries inside her empty car,
there is no wedge between them,
her breath retires, then forgets.

To take air in again, love
perilous and beautiful,
the body will align itself,
eyes close, tongue recite, repair.

**********************************

now- it may not seem very close, in fact, not at all- but here is the original
(from 1997)

Under the Influence

Like Eponine I would die
in your arms make you say
you had loved me
lie with me in final misunderstanding
safely pretending
there was a kind of substance

I cannot think for your breath
lingering in the wake of you
I would sooner die for some cause
than try to piece fortune
into weak accomplishment
without you

It has been long enough
I should be beyond your influence
out of your circle still searching
there is no place left to look
revelation came from you

I am your satellite
always close never touching
held here reflecting wonder
the laws are unbending
bound as surely as stone is eternal
I am here and will not be moved
from this path I did not choose
anymore than the moon chose this planet.

Smeared with mango butter, I am a human bagel. Pondering slam and the nature of same.

Small turnout tonight- 5 (count 'em) 5 competing- or was it six? More at the open mike after- I had some old stuff, my weird little poem- (a rewrite)

Too much to say

Wall-hugging fear can bring me down,
not heights, ladders, chain link fences,
or other form of restraint: an inner vacuum
pressure-sealed finger-gripped reality
spits me out of the void onto the bare stage.

Sometimes I see myself slap-stopped
on my knees suppliant to a grain of sand
unable to give in to the radiant glory
distracted past reason by previous life blunders
"You Are What You Think You Are" my mantra, sure.

The chart spikes here: check for numb wrist,
palpable manifestations, anxiety attacking.
I have given you my heart, no take backs.
An admonition: you might have said 'thank you',
even bad news is news, even weather is news.

You can name the clouds like stars, your children
will not believe in what you do, it has always been so;
as unlikely as the poets' Martian rose, renewal
falls in snow flakes on uplifted hands, beautiful,
here and gone before you know you are cold.

SPONSOR a POET!!!

This from CAConrad

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There are thousands of Americans everyday who are looking for a safe place to invest their money. Poets are the best source for removing negative charge from your wealth, and raising the collective conscience of the planet. You can change your life FOREVER by sponsoring a poet today! CAConrad is one such American poet serious about making poetry a lifelong quest, ready and willing to refine your money! If you are interested in sponsoring this poet, call (215)563-3075, or write to CAConrad13@AOL.com. You won't believe the difference a poet will make!

I offer myself as another possibility to help you make the world a better place-
call 804-523-5572 and ask for 'shann' or write me at shannp@gmail.com

I will make you a better person, change you for the better, for good!

"Hieroglyphica" - Wallace Stevens

People that live in the biggest houses
Often have the worst breaths.
Hey-di-ho.

Even if I had nothing else to do
I could look at flowers.
Hey-di-ho.

The humming-bird is the national bird
Of the humming-bird.
Hey-di-ho.

X understands Aristotle
Instinctively, not otherwise.
Hey-di-ho.

Let wise men piece the world together with wisdom
Or poets with holy magic.
Hey-di-ho.

Find Beauty here

AS MUCH AS YOU CAN


And if you can't shape your life the way you want,
at least try as much as you can
not to degrade it
by too much contact with the world,
by too much activity and talk.

Try not to degrade it by dragging it along,
taking it around and exposing it so often
to the daily silliness
of social events and parties,
until it comes to seem a boring hanger-on.

C. Cavafy, 1913
Translation by E. Keeley and P. Sherrard

Happy Thanksgiving-

Thanksgiving of 1967, my parents, five kids, and two cats left Houston for Tucson in a Pink Cadillac pulling a U-Haul trailer in search of....

I don't know- fortune, adventure, freedom? They lived the dream/nightmare of it for about twenty years, then died in Las Vegas- a little less than twenty years ago (a year or so apart).

I made my way out of their mess in 1968 when I started college at the University of Arizona on what I was told was Linda Ronstadt's scholarship- Dr. Bloom told me that. He's long dead also.

I don't know what happened to the cats. The kids (besides me)live in various states of fucked-up in Nevada, California, and Alaska, I think, we don't have much to say to each other anymore. The U-Haul got pushed over a canyon in northern Arizona after they realized the late fees would be astronomical. That's what I was told.

Here in Richmond, Virginia all that seems very far away and fantastic. I don't make much of holidays. We'll have turkey. My kids have a very thin legacy. Be kind, do no harm, share what you have. A nod to tradition.

At three a.m. I feel very alone, I wonder how much time I have, I wonder why it matters. I live in some fear the Pentecostal heaven they taught me about might be true: where when you die, you get reunited with all your relatives.

I have a 22 pound turkey in the trunk of my car, frozen solid. The store where I bought my pre-cooked meal (Cajun Fried turkey and fixens) was selling them for 17 cents a pound if you spent forty dollars. I'm trying to give it away. All the agencies were closed by the time I got home from the store. I'll call around again tomorrow, there is surely someone who can use it.

Probably my brother could, or my sister- but they're too far away.

I didn't have to go to work today. I allowed myself sleep- I didn't answer the phone or do anything particularly useful. Except sleep.

I am constantly reminded how much of my time I give away- sometimes by my children, who have learned that questionable talent from me. My son spent time with a friend and didn’t complete a paper. Now he's scrambling and couldn't work (extra) today. I gave away 30 (estimate) of the past 72 hours. I mean, over and above jobs, the time I spent on helping/promoting other people. I don't regret any of those hours, but I didn't do any writing, didn't do many maintenance tasks needed to keep a house in order (notice I don't say 'clean'), and I didn't allow myself any time until today.

Fine, good karma, mitzvahs- all that, if you don't have a paper due.

When I was little my grandmother told me for every good deed you did, you got something else in your mansion in heaven. I used to believe that.

I don't anymore, and maybe that's a sad thing

I have to go to Costco to buy beer

yeah

Slash Coleman's one man show is tonight at art6- go to FlashPaperPoetry to check on details- please come-

more later....

I am out of poems right now

Here's an old poem (unedited- a CBE is a 'chinese brush expriment' in poetry -

'off the cuff, so to speak- this is from 1999 or 2000-

Film Festival (CBE)

Interpreting Bette Davis
in southern hoops accent
on the halfshell we never had
oysters will kill y’all mamma said
maybe she was afraid
we might have sex too soon
babies too soon maybe we would’ve
Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte
it’s alright now we’re the genteel
poor in pocket rich in madness
wrapped in jonquils from the yard
stolen sweethearts taste the best
Bell Book and Candle-abra ready
it’s not a spell but it fits
go ahead and charm my pants off
I’ll be wearing yours forever
by the time I work my southern wiles.

stupid people

swirl my skirts with farts,
stinky consonants, vaudeville
fat men doing spit takes-

at least those guys were funny,
bringing out rolling chuckles
from shopgirls and tailors,

whole audiences held up
in matinee splendor, shoddy
pleasure, shooters and spuds.

No one caught meetings,
over-thought; it was “sink or swim,
bud, you better make ‘em laugh”

Pudding gives proof, blood speaks
simple: life is pain until you die-
enjoy the dancing bear before he eats you.

The Ides of November- it's unseasonably warm in Richmond, and all the nuts in my life are laying on the ground ready to be picked up and shelled.

I belong to an art gallery- 2 (not counting the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, of course) that are 'artist-run.' That's different than the VMFA or a university or corporate-run institution. In an artist-run gallery, we (the artists) do everything- staffing, sweeping, scrubbing the toilet, and taking out trash. EVERYTHING.

I joined because it keeps me in touch with like-minded people, gives me something to volunteer for that brings art to the public, gives me a forum for my poetry and a place to promote the poetry/performace work of others.

I'm not completely sure about why others joined. Conflicts are raging right now.Turf wars are abounding and I'm sick of it. For the first time today, I am ready to quit and put my energies toward something more positive.

But then the terrorists win, right??

Now here's an example of the English language at its best- on the ad tease for MSNBC's news show tonight, she said:

"Tonight- We'll tell parents how to protect their children from the nation's top experts-"

YES! A show I want to watch!

"She died, free but in poverty." from a link at Poetry Hut

They'll probably say that about me. The poverty part, anyway.

****
uh- yo,yo,yo- drop my drawers- I was avoiding housework when I slipped over to Ron Sillimans's blog and saw-umm- me- it's a great blog- read it, go ahead- everyday. I do.

I can't believe I just linked to myself-
I'm missing the Soul Cafe reading at the library because I'll be at the gallery tonight for Hotel X (8pm, c'mon) and all day tomorrow at the Holocaust museum and have to do stuff sometime-

I did, however, write 1500 words and a poem today- yeah!

I am so tired of hearing the same news in the same 24 hours from all over (including my husband reading me stuff from the Drudge Report that I saw already on CNN or whatever)-
then...the story does one of two things- 1) continues until I am stuffed as violet Violet with the details of it or 2) it drops off the face of the earth forever.

I'd like stick the lady bankrobber's phone up her ass. NBC just showed a clip of Faye Dunaway as Bonnie Parker to fluff out the story. I saw the baby carriage stuck on a train seven times since 4:45. (The TV is in the same room as the computer and other family members are watching it- even now)

As soon as the hubby leaves for his LARP, I am turning the thing OFF and listening to today's MobyLives broadcast. yeah.

and THIS was a story we didn't know??

oh yeah- and I don't give a fuck where Matt Lauer is- or what Nicole Richie had to say to Katie Couric's 'tough' questions.

The link for the Mobylives audio feed is not working on my home computer- wah!
I have to fix that today- I have to write today- I have to order my turkey from Ukrop's today- I have to clean up my bedroom today so the desk on the front porch can come inside before it rains Monday.

It's just like the desk I had as a teen in my bedroom in La Porte. It matches my dresser (the picture is close but mine is nicer, I think) which is the only piece of furniture I have from my childhood. I have a lamp made from a tin my mother had (my ex-husband made it into a lamp), and another tin. A baby dress, my baby book, photos- that's all. Everything else in this house I have bought, made, or (rarely) been given.

Someone brought the desk to the church for the rummage sale and I had to have it. The vicar gave it to me and the husband of the alto in my choir delivered it yesterday.

It's colonial (yuck) and completely useless- it's tall (6ft?) narrow, with three shelves, a small drawer and a flip-top opening, sometimes called a secretary. I never used it as a desk and never will here either. I'm not sure where I'll put it or why I needed to have it.

Here's another link to the Times-Dispatch article on the thing the students are doing at the Holocaust Museum. I'm just the piano player.

Have a lovely Veteran's Day, we're all veterans of something - maybe our childhood spent in a covert war. Read this from Kurt Vonnegut-

I can't seem to sleep, can't seem to write- I woke at 4am something and browsed the channels (I sleep with the TV on almost mute) to find a very disturbing little clunk of cinema history.

Seconds (John Frankenheimer, 1966) is a very odd movie, not fabulous, but fascinating- I thought the ending was a rebirth (what with the long journey down a hallway while Rock Hudson screamed and had to be eventually gagged (the sound was almost like an infant) but I've just been reading reviews and commentary and no one else mentions that- of well. Maybe that's too Twilight Zone-

I used to have such a crush on Hudson- he was paired often with Doris Day (my idol- she was so blonde, so pretty, so good-hearted) and so handsome- who knew? I think I spent my life looking for that type of man- yummy, dark, and reticent, non-sexually sexual. You want names? Buy the book (I'm slowly writing it) but I've always been suspect of people that were too physical too fast and then puzzled when the follow-through missed something. Come close/don't get too close- heck, I even hate 'passing the peace' in church. I definately have intimacy issues.

Been reading my autographed copy of Profoundly Erotic- Sexy Movies that Changed History by Joe Bob Briggs (don't let the Texas-two-name fool you, this is a serious book) so my outlook may be a little corrupted. Of course, he doesn't mention my personal fave- the glove removal scene in The Age of Innocence. That scene gets me randy every time- though I suspect part of that is because it is an unfulfilled promise- whatthehell is wrong with me?

A man walks down the street, he says,
‘why am I soft in the middle, now?
Why am I soft in the middle and the rest of my life is so hard?
I need a photo opportunity, I want a shot at redemption,
don’t want to end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard. Paul Simon

Here's to angels in the architecture-

I'm serious, people- go now and listen to MobyLives

Then go to your favorite independent bookstore and BUY something. Even if it's only to make you look smart (you have to listen to get that ref!)

Fountain Bookstore
Book People
Carytown Books (now off Bellevue) walk up to Stir Crazy and get a wrap
Chop Suey
Cafe Gutenberg and eat some of the great food!

I've got to go to rehearsal- all these except Book People are linked over at FlashPaperPoetry-

A woman poet in Afghanistan was beaten to death by her husband. I could not find any of her poems translated.

Yeah!Yeah yeah! It's back and it's OUTLOUD

not so easy to sneak to at work, but I don't care.

MobyLives on the radio.

Here's Josh Jackson in front of the Kinetic Imaging DVD he created for the THINKsmall and WRITEsmall exhibit at art6 and Artspace

This was one of the submissions, but was not a winner or honorable mention. I did, however try to get as many of the entries as I could onto the wall.

The response was wonderful! Two-hundred or so people paid $25-$30 to attend the opening reception Thursday night and another 1800 came on First Friday.

The scariest faces I've ever seen (and yes, I'm counting the current administration).

I've never been into fashion anyway, but these children- and they ARE children- are...I'm speechless- reminds me of that ballet dancer who starved herself to death -

I am so busry right now with the THINKsmall reception tonight, First Friday tomorrow night, the high school show for the Holocaust Museum, and this TERRIBLE cold I got from Costco (clerk at the pharmacy counter sneezing, coughing, handling all my stuff) - anyway-

Here's a wonderful poem by Brian Barker- it's not just because I'm from Houston, either.

Why have I not heard of this guy??

Last night I had my first rehearsal for the comedy improv- it was FUN!!! I think I can do this- though I don't know how it will fit into my schedule- if I didn't have to work, I could do all these wonderful things!

Anybody out there want to give me a wheelbarrow full of money?

FlashPaperPoetry is updated for November-
of course, I add things all month as I find out about them-

I am so proud- my daughter (picture from last year when she was not a blonde) was named to the All-Star Cast for the Virginia Theater Association High School Competition! Fifty schools, a record number, participated.

As I mentioned below, since Henrico High won last year, they were not eligible to compete, but individuals could be named for other awards- AND SHE WAS!!!!!!!

Is this cool or what?

Me? I spent the aftrenoon at a drumming workshop- it was fun. Umm, mostly. It seems to be a very upper middle class middle-aged woman kind of thing- I'm sure the guy who came to 'teach' us has to be wondering about exactly what it is he does- He seems really really nice and probably doesn't have a cynical bone in his body (unlike myself, who could market my blood as something called Cyn-ni-cale). I pondered all the way home why white women have no rhythm.

But we're terribly earnest.

Speaking of which- last year I helped the school with a Poetry Jam- it was fantastic, these were great kids- some of whom had kids themselves, some who had family members murdered or in jail for murder, a couple of whom were normal city-type HS kids- anyway- the yearbook insert came out and there's my picture on the front with the caption "Shann Palmer carefully reads her poem."

Maybe someone told them to use more adverbs.

Must be Friday-

check this out: The Madonna in Me and this from Poets & Writers.

How many of these people will be writing in ten years? How many have a single poem that will be remembered in five years?

It must be pop-culture day- here's a poem by Chris Carrier from Readactions

This is worth reposting-

Poems for Peace deadline Nov. 30.

How to fit it all in?

I'm going to miss Hal Crowther at the Virginia Museum tomorrow night- have to- the daughter has a parent meeting at the school for the kids going to VTA. They won (top 2 rows, middle 2 my daughter, with flower) last year (Songs from Bedlam by Doug Jones) so can't compete for a place, but they can go and compete for other awards. She's in a short play and entering a costume plot for Tartuffe. It's up in Reston, so I get TIME TO MYSELF (particularly since hubby & the son have a game weekend)

Getting to events is becoming more difficult as the choices increase- Richard Peabody of Gargolye will also be here tomorrow at Chop Suey bookstore with Liz Canfield- all this activity is going on in a five mile radius of where I live and I'll be at the high school because that' s where I want to be right now-

as corny as it sounds, the poets will always be there- I've only got one daughter.

Good news for poets- another venue, this time at the Richmond Public Library. The Soul Cafe/Lyric Avenue folks had a sweet two hour block in the reading room, with prizes and food (thank you to Catering by Jill Inc, 8574 Sanford Drive Richmond VA, 804-262-5787).

There were almost thirty people, fans and fellow writers- from in town (shout out to T. S. Prunier)and out (Nathan Richardson who reads in Chesapeake at the Java Junction)- THE NEXT ONE Saturday November 12, 2-4pm - mark your calendars- I just did.

Check FlashPaperPoetry for more info, I hope they'll send me more.

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In the meantime, I drove down Main St. to go home, through VCU past Monroe Park. There was a line of people, neatly single file, in front of a table. On the table were bowls and bread (I think) and one oversize crockpot. As I zoomed by, I though- I hope there's more coming because they'll never serve all those folks with that one pot.

What if they could serve them all with that one pot? A loaves and fishes scenario for the 21st century- There were more coming, too. A scruffy man with a jammed backpack was heading that way, another was crossing at the light.

well, that's never happened- I wrote a great blog and it blipped out of existence-

It would've changed the world- yeah

Here's some thoughts on blogging from C. Dale Young from Kelli Russell Agodon-

Personally, I have stopped going to workshop sites, preferring to blog- being interactive has worn me out-
the comments I received on poems were of little value except for a small few who knew the craft (and no, they didn't all gush over my brilliant poetry)

I really like to link, besides-

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Speaking of linking- does anyone else grind their teeth at the "Where you at?" commercial?
I know it's a song lyric- in fact, that's what booted me off the page- i tried to link on two different sites to the lyrics and my computer was ambushed by adware- the protection program I have shut me down for safety-

damn

I have been at the high school for the arts all day, playing piano- the Vocal Music Theater classes are doing a show at the Virginia Holocaust Museum . They're doing many things, but I am only playing on songs from "Fiddler on the Roof" . I spent some of the day helping them with a little Yiddish- as if I'm an expert- and trying to get them to say "schnapps" correctly-

later.... there WILL be more

I have been holding this news for a week!! Here's my hot off the press (well, no press actually- so I get to let it out, thanks for nothing local newspapers!)

Announcing a new prize- Carole Weinstein gives $10,000 annually to a poet or poets from Central Virginia with strong ties to this area and significant recent contributions to the art.

The inaugural winners are Ron Smith and Elizabeth Seydel Morgan

Here's the Official Web Page with more info. Congratulations, you honor us all!

Check out Good Guests by Vern Rutsala. He's one of the finalists for the National Book Award for poetry-

Here's the rest: (two links for each poet)
John Ashbery -- Where Shall I Wander
Frank Bidart -- Star Dust
Brendan Galvin -- Habitat
W S Merwin -- Migration
Vern Rutsala -- The Moment's Equation (scroll down)

There's at least one friend of mine who will say- why do you care about these academic nothings? And I say, I don't but it's interesting- I'm torn between Ashbery (whom I adore) and Merwin (who is stunning)- Bidart and Galvin I know less- Tony Hoagland just got a big fat award- good for him- so I guess he didn;t get to make the double dip-


What separates the wheat from the chaff other than a lot of wind or a good shake?

Amazing how two days slip by- the show (Five Girls Follies- see Oct 4) was wonderful, the girls raised about one-third of the hotel money they need for New York-

I played piano-

time stopped, as usual.

Music was what led me to first question the concept of linear time. When I am playing or singing, performing- I have noticed, or not noticed as the case may be- that time suspends for me- if I am doing a poetry reading it happens occasionally, but usually only if I am doing a solo reading of 15-30 minutes. In music it happens all the time.

Speaking of reading- Moveable Feast this friday- at 1708 Gallery on Broad Street. Can someone advise about the spelling of 'moveable-vs-movable'? I see both all over the web.

Anyway- time- maybe it's not time, maybe it's a trance state. sometimes I write that way, or the poem/short story emerges when it happens/or does the creative activity dictate the state?

I heard a new statement I like- I'm 'studying' to become a musical comedy improv accompanist- yeah- but here's the quote- "Craft liberates genius"- in the book it is attributed to Dick Grove but it sounds like something that has probably been said many times before-

Why don't teachers point this out more often to poetry students?? I am tired of the 'I write it this way because it comes from my heart and you can't edit genuine emotions' Oh yes I can.

Maybe we don't have enough time- or maybe we have too much. Makes me want the life of a Tralfamadorian- now THAT would solve a few of my time issues.

So today I did many things- the priest preached about joy- so I played "Joy to the World" for the recessional. It instantly made everyone smile and laugh, an unexpected pleasure on a dreary day. (did I mention I'm a Episcopal organist/choir director?)

I read my poems and someone who had never heard them before sat and listened and told me how much he emjoyed them- he was not a poet, nor has he ever been.

I had Crab Rangoon and General Tso's chicken with three lovely young women who make me laugh out loud- two of them have terrible things going on around them right now but they glow with youth and talent-

I didn't dance today. I laughed and played a lot of music-

I have problems with people named Brian- no offense meant if I don't know you - but it's a true fact.

However- David's and Doug's have all been fine and dandy. Douglas Adams in particular- I loved the books and loved the movie Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy- even with the imperfections-

Then there's Douglas Coupland- how can you not like Legos and Price Club?

Of course, I need to bring up Kathy Acker- but that is definately a different color horse-

what do all these people have in common??

This just in:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
CONTACT: Kim Roberts
beltway.poetry@juno.com
http://washingtonart.com/beltway.html
Beltway Poetry Quarterly is accepting poems for two upcoming special
issues. Please help us spread the word widely!
CALL FOR NEW POEMS ON THE IRAQ WAR

For a special issue due to be published online April 1, 2006, guest
editor Sarah Browning seeks recent poems on the war in Iraq. Topics
might include, but are not limited to: the impact on the Iraqi people,
American servicemembers, military families, and/or the American people;
Abu Ghraib and the American archipelago; opposition movements of all
kinds; the effect of war policy on life at home; personal survival in
dark times; imagining a way forward. All approaches and styles, with a
preference for poems one page and under.

Poets must live or work in the mid-Atlantic region in Washington DC,
Maryland, Virginia, Delaware, or West Virginia. Please send up to three
poems in the body of an email to: iraqwarpoems@yahoo.com by December
15, 2005. (If your poem is chosen for publication, you will have a
chance to send a hard copy or an attachment, to preserve formatting.)
Previously published OK; please give publication information. Poets
previously featured in Beltway Poetry Quarterly are eligible. There are
no entry fees.

About the Guest Editor: Sarah Browning is coeditor of D.C. Poets
Against the War: An Anthology and coordinates the group of the same
name, which has been active since the first national day of poetry
against the war, February 12, 2003. Browning's recent poems have
appeared in Elixir, The Literary Review, and Beltway Poetry Quarterly.
She is the recipient of the People Before Profits Poetry Prize and the
Quadrangle Poetry Award. She lives in Washington, D.C., where she works
for The Fund for Women Artists, building public support for women
artists.
CALL FOR POEMS ABOUT WASHINGTON, DC
For a special issue to be published in July 2006, Kim Roberts and guest
editor Andrea Carter Brown seek poems celebrating Washington DC. Poems
must mention a specific location in the city by name, for example, a
street, neighborhood, park, building, or monument.
Poets living anywhere in the US are eligible; previously published
poems are acceptible if copyright has reverted to the author (author is
responsible for obtaining permissions). Poets previously featured in
the journal are eligible. There are no entry fees. Send up to 4 poems
of any length (maximum 10 pages total) by email only. Include a
one-paragraph bio. Poems must be sent in the body of the email;
attachments will not be opened. Deadline: February 15, 2006. Send to
beltwaypoetryquarterly@gmail.com.
About the co-editors: Kim Roberts is the editor of Beltway Poetry
Quarterly. Andrea Carter Brown is managing editor of the Emily
Dickinson Review, faculty member at Pomona College, and author of The
Disheveled Bed (CavanKerry Press). She lives in Los Angeles, CA.
FOR MORE INFORMATION:
Please see Beltway Poetry Quarterly at
http://washingtonart.com/beltway.html

The Writing Life vs. The Real Life-

A well covered topic, yes? In every little lit mag or discussion group, it comes up. I think every panel I attended at the JRWC at least mentioned it - How do you find time to write? Submit?

The glib answer is- you make time. The usual answer is- you steal time-

I'm not sure about either one as a useful tool for poets. We have so many ways of writing- and the way we approach the art is probably as diverse.

I'm terribly tempted to take the easy route and list my own set of tips, but what I really want to do is kvetch about how tough it is- how frustrated I am right now, and how tired thinking about it makes me.

It's like making that doctor's appt (I need to do THAT too) I will do it, I want to do it, I need to do it. Just as soon as I get home from work.......

Here's a bit of inspiration - Wendell Berry

Everybody be blogging, everybody be workshopping-

Here's an interesting one, if a little pricey Poetry at Sea or maybe the tried and true- in sweet Cape May - or maybe the Chincoteague Writers Conference So little money, so little time!

Time?? This isn't poetry BUT my daughter and four of her friends (all seniors at the Henrico Center for the Arts High School in vocal music theater) will be doing a showcase "Five Girls Follies" on Tuesday October 11 at 7pm at ComedySportz Improv Theater- $10 (raising money for a New York City trip) Please come! Call 266-9377 for reservations.

I'm still digesting the JRWC (see post before this one). It was a great time- I should be at work but the in-laws are coming next weekend, First Friday is coming up and I have to get to ABC license so we can sell wine and beer, and, frankly- I need a shower.

Here's some good news- hot off the press! From The Hook : Best news for Central Virginia poets: The Carole Weinstein Prize in Poetry will award $10,000 annually to poets with strong ties to this area and significant recent contributions to the art.

Imagine! Now $10,000 would not radically change someones lifestyle (though it would sure pay off a few bills and get the hole in the kitchen floor fixed, eliminate worry a little) but -wow- wouldn't that be a treat? I have a list of people I don't want to see get it- but only God can judge us truly- yes? And for that, I'm willing to wait.

L'shanah tovah to my many friends!

The WRITEsmall contest officially begins today, though I will not throw out the entries I have already received (overachievers make the world go around).

I have spent the last two days at the James River Writers Conference an interesting assortment of activities for writers put on BY writers. The emphasis is definately fiction but with nods toward much more. Of course, I'd like to see more poetry- always- but that's just me.

Notables (among the notables): Reb Livingston of No Tell Motel, Ron Hogan of Beatrice, K. Lorraine Graham, and lots of locals I'm way too tired to link to right now.

Good panels on day job vs. unemployment, blogging (Hey!) and whatever we talked about yesterday. Got a totebag, too!

Recommended (with reservations- check out the panels to make sure what you might be interested in is there, it might be nice to have a 'craft class' and something for teachers- though since one whole day is on Friday it may not matter) On the whole, the staff (aka as JamesRiver Writers) and the folks at the Library of Virginia did a great job with the set-up- Major kudos for organization.

More on this stuff later-

where did the time go? Has it been so long since I have said anything?

no- but not here, I suppose

I have a poetry contest going on, if you're interested it's all on my webpage.

In the meantime (there's that time again)
Since I would not enter my own contest, here are some of my small poems-

1.Losing touch implies contact
made prior to now felt good
when you left wordless saying
more with a cursory kiss than
an unexpected fist instructs
the bone to give, then break.

2.I may be disappointed everytime
we interact as I perceive you
accumulating dots while I persist
in swallowing the picture whole yet
we're both in the park with George,
& it's Sunday wherever we stand.

3.On my TV you seem unable to grasp
hope's fragile encouragement left
to stare at your hand like a baby
who does not know these fingers
now folded into a fist will learn
day by day to build a life again.

4.
Your work consumes, no- defines you
dive into the deep end sure death
is not an option you will learn to swim
or better be a fish if you must
to make the grade at least as close as will not
taunt the gods to bring you down.

I think my line break got goofed up

The Ideal Unachievable State

for Blaise Pascal, who died August 19th, 1662

Canary, breathe!
What was not is again,
no thing is an illusion.
What was empty has been
filled with good things.

Heaven takes despair
and puts it somewhere else,
in the mouths of miscreants,
or perhaps, the unaffiliated
creedless, cretins and bores.

Believe in nothing at your peril,
nature abhors a vacuous mind,
better to swerve and hit God
than miss the devil, don-cha-know
if the after life is so great, go now.

Falling off a perch happens,
empty takes up space, not a bit
left for a mote in God’s eye.
I would have written a shorter poem,
but I did not have the time.

What the dream gave me

I fight the pass of seasons,
longing to create
differences where there are
no differences.

The desire to
impose a timely structure:
monument by prior arrangement,
practice goodbye.

No matter how perfectly
bags are packed
when the going comes
what was is abandoned.

Wishing wells are aptly named,
hope spoken into the abyss;
forgiven, brought up again
watered down, something
to be spilled on more reasonable ground.

In the end we embrace-
not long enough, or hard enough,
already beginning
to wake up.

and yes, "heart full of hornets" comes from a great song by Calexico-

Still working out the method of this, I think- for calendar info, please go to my webpage http://groups.msn.com/FlashPaperPoetry- sometimes the link doesn't work- I have no clue why or why not, I have NOTHING to do with that.

here's a poem:

Concomitant variation

Excess caution bottles time
like cheap booze makes you puke
next day regrets and what dids.

Doesn't beg trouble exactly,
only offers the opportunity.
You supply the three-piece suit.

I thought you were a magic man.
Spelled senseless, half-blind
heart full of hornets, I jumped.

When you said stop, I did
vertical moves, too square
to get anywhere interesting.

Sticking to the sidewalk
is a function of the weather,
I blow hot and cold, in season.

Shann says: